


The World Spins Madly On

by QuixoticAxiom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, talking to ones self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuixoticAxiom/pseuds/QuixoticAxiom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran and John Watson are similar creatures;  both are grieving, both feel as if their life has no point.  The difference is only one of them actually lost something... or so Sebastian thought.</p><p>"An eye for an eye is the only justice detective.  And let me make it very clear. I. Owe. You."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

            The world was gray. A sick monochrome tint was cast over the colors that used to make up his life.  It bit at the back of his eyes and filled his ears with buzzing. He finally understood what grief was; the pulling cold that permeated everything and slowly made it brittle and dry; the heated anger that came between in waves and shattered everything the cold had touched. Everything was gray, then red, then black.  It left him paralyzed.  He had spent three days on the adjacent rooftop staring at the smear of blood, watching it turn from red to brown and then be washed away by the rain.  He only moved to light another cigarette.

           The final problem Jim had called it. He had used so many metaphors.  Only now did Sebastian realize that survival had never been part of the plan.  Sherlock Holmes was dead.  He had been naïve to think that Jim would live in a world without an equal, without a challenge. Sebastian knew that he had only ever been a toy for the sociopath.  The death of Sherlock Holmes had been the death of James Moriarty; and although Sebastian  hated to admit it but Jim had defined him and now he was lost.

            The body was removed to be hidden away and disposed of. He would never see it again never get the chance to say goodbye.  The rain washed away the blood and Moran left the roof to walk the streets of London.  He didn’t know where he was going and didn’t care. Some part of him, the sentimental part that Jim had always been so quick to admonish and tear to shreds, hoped that some higher power of coincidence would lead him to where he needed to be.  He kept walking even though he knew that the thought was ridiculous but some small shriveled part of him hoped.

            Three hours later lost in some slum he hailed a cab.  He gave the cabbie the address to the flat he had shared with Jim and watched the streets and alleyways roll by in three second blurs. 

            The flat was painfully quiet. What had been minimalistic intimidation while Jim was alive had morphed in to skeletal vacancy.  No one lived here anymore.  Sebastian began to wonder if anyone ever had. Five rooms, three weapons hidden in each, bulletproof glass in the window panes; yet, he didn’t feel safe here, this was Jim’s home. The reek of the flashy power Jim had always appriciated exuded from the walls.  Quick wit and aces had always been the norm.  Sebastian had never understood the need for that kind of show.  He had always preferred stealth, the grip of a gun pressed in to his side as he walked. He went in to his room and tried to clear his head of those thoughts to no avail. The memories stabbed in to his lungs. Whispers of him lying on the bed covered in sweat nails digging in to Jim’s back seeped and billowed like cold smoke.  He looked away from the rumple bed only to have his eyes find another spot of color drained passion.  He quickly realized staying here was not a viable option. He threw a few useful things into a duffel bag and walked out. The weight of his gun pressed against his spine. He wished he had the courage to look back.

\--

            His hours were measured in steps; days in the weight his gun seemed to gain.  He counted minutes in his pulse, felt most prominently in his trigger finger.  When he found himself in large crowds he would reach in to his pocket and trace his finger along the machined planes of his pistol and contemplate emptying the magazine into the crowd.  Jim would appreciate the randomness of it.  He would be gone before the authorities arrived.  They would put the world’s best and brightest up to finding him but he would be gone. _No, not the best_ he would think before he slowly unhanded the piece.  He could feel the pressure in his throat; characteristic of what he did not know. Guilt, regret, sympathy?  He knew what it was like to have your world bleed out and be left in the frigid desert that remained. The randomness of the act would kill him, the choice of the victims so misguided and meaningless. Who would he doom to a fate so like his own? What was this lurid solution that filled his lungs and effused throughout his body until it hit his brain? It crippled everything and left him with only the ability to walk misshapen steps around this malevolent city.

            At some point, 52,181 steps later, Sebastian acknowledged the streaks of gray playing across his vision, almost like rain, 52,203. He painted them red in his mind, exactly like blood.  The streaks swirled in to Jim’s blood painted on the concrete.  There were already discrepancies glaring in his mind.    Memory was not a machine but an organic painting subject to the erosion of grief and time.  Slowly it got washed away by the rain; all it left him with was haunted dreams and empty veins.    This was a different pain than he had ever known. Tears blurred his vision and collected against his nose, 52,815.    He slouched in to the metal chair of an outdoor café and said something to the server.  He didn’t know what but it must have made sense because she walked away after giving him a sad smile.     

            The bustle of the street polluted his thoughts. The noise was basic against his ear drum; it slicked and burned never quite in focus.  He could almost hear Jim’s voice beginning the game that they always played when they went out.

_‘Tell me Sebbie that woman two tables down how many ways could you kill her without anyone noticing?’_

            “Twelve” he said. He looked up to see the smirk that would play across Jim’s lips.  No one was there yet the acidic whisper remained.

_‘Without standing up.’_

             “Three”   

_‘Really? I counted Four’_ Sebastian could imagine the tsk-ing noise that would come from his pale lips and the swish of silk as his moved slightly when he shook his head.  His fingers would bridge over his nose and he would flash teeth.

            “Her wallet is in her pocket, yet she also carries a small purse. Three.” Jim would smile.

_‘Very good my pet’_

            Heavy steps broke through his musings, steps that tried to be in the strict measure that military 2/4 time set but couldn’t due to a limp. _Variance inconsistent: psychosomatic._ Boots entered his field of vision. _Afghanistan._ The story was too familiar, Sebastian didn’t dare look up.

            The man let out a sigh and in it Sebastian heard the cracking of the delicate glass pane that kept incontrollable anger and inescapable grief separate. Slowly he raised his eyes to the form of John Watson hunched over a table gripping his cane hard enough to press a bruise into the palm of his hand.  He ordered his coffee black with two sugars and stared blankly at the table as if he had forgotten how to do anything but breathe.

_‘How about him? I bet you could think of at least fifty … I’ll even let you use silverware this time.’_

             Even under the layers of grief John’s persona screamed a military career that was well acquainted with the front lines and the ice in his veins that came with it.Under that instinctive cool though abandonment shrieked and tried to claw its way to the surface.  The server brought John his drink and he thanked her without looking up. As he stared Sebastian caught a glimpse of longing _unrequited love?_  

          “You don’t need to, he’s already dead” Moran said under his breath.  He ran a hand over his face and winced as the salt crystals around his eyes rubbed at his skin. 

_‘That’s not part of the game, tell me.’_

            “No. I wouldn’t I couldn’t.”

_‘Moran…’_ The voice was threatening but he knew the tone was devoid of meaning.

            “Haven’t you already done enough?” he asked. Resignation was not a pleasant taste.

After drinking his coffee John paid and left.  Sebastian Watched him walk away for a few seconds before he stood up and followed him home like a lost dog.

\--

           The flat across from 221B’s lock was incredibly easy to pick, it didn’t even require a kit, just a basic bump key and he was in.  The rooms were up for rent.  A thin layer of dust coated the floors. The sun rose and illuminated the windows of the now infamous flat. Sebastian could see a single sleeping form in the upstairs bedroom.  John was thrashing in a war crazed dream. Sebastian knew the feeling well, the panic, the inability to act, the sting of wounds that had long since healed over and left scars.  The fits continued for several minutes, then the doctor froze; his arm reached out for something in an all too familiar scene. Sebastian’s fists clenched, his nails drew blood.  He was sure he could see the scene playing out in his head as clear as John could. 

_Shots fired, rolling echo, not blanks. It was over._  

A single tear dripped on to the dusty floor and left a ragged circle.

‘ _Twenty seven ways from here’_

   “No.”


	2. II

The night before Jim’s death had been serene.  The storm that his obsession had permanently cast in the pinch of his eyebrows and set of his lips seemed to subside.  Everything was in place he said with great confidence and a lazy smile.  Tomorrow he would defeat Sherlock Holmes.  Sebastian could hear him say it even now with a smug grin.

‘Stop his head with his heart and set fire to the ruins.’ The plan had been elegant.  Sebastian was certain nothing could go wrong. 

“And what of after” he had asked innocently as he watched Jin load the blanks in to the gun.

“You’ll see my pet, just wait.”

That night Jim had not left when he was finished with him, but instead stayed and absent mindedly traced over the welts he had left until Sebastian fell asleep with an arm wrapped around him.  As his thoughts gradually became less formed he foolishly allowed himself to hope. Jim’s weight pressed against him kept the worst of the nightmares away.  Whispers of I love you died before they could leave his lungs because he knew Jim would just laugh and tell him to get a grip. 

\--

                “I love you.” 

                ‘ _Oh I know my pet.  The easiest way to control a fool is through his heart’_

                John Watson stiffened when he awoke and slowly rolled up to sitting the acute pain of recent injury written on his every move.   He groped around for his cane.  His other arm was braced stiffly against the mattress shaking trying to hold him up against the imagined burden of his agony.  Sebastian watched as he began the wretched trek to the kitchenette in the flat.

He watched John go about his day and made notes of little habits as they presented themselves.  He knew he only did so because if he had anyone who understood him at this moment, a kindred spirit it was this man.  John still wore his dog tags tucked under his shirt.  He carried a pistol tucked in to the back of his waist band.  The obvious things marked him a military man, the less obvious, the ones Moran was trained to look for, marked him as a broken one.  His hand would wrap around the handles of two mugs when he reached in to the cupboard before he would pause and correct himself with a sigh.  There were certain places in the flat which he actively avoided, he kept a journal and tried to pretend he didn’t cry when he wrote in it even though no one was around to witness it.  Before he fell asleep he lit a cigarette and watched it burn to the filter never bringing it to his lips.

                _‘Thirty two now that the window is open.’_ He heard Jim whisper gleefully as the cigarette slowly flickered out and the smoke lazily dissipated. 

“You never believed in mercy.” He said. “And at this point killing him would be just that.  Trust me.”

_‘But you do my pet.  And what am I but a projection?’_   He could hear the raise in Jim’s eyebrows and the smirk that would follow.   _I also believed in you._   Sebastian thought bitterly. _Look where that got me._

Streetlights were beginning to blink on in anticipation of night creeping in to the city in the coming hour.  Sebastian made his way through the ever present crowd trying his best not to observe.  The numbers jumped out at him anyway… _14, 54, 4; five if you wait till the intersection_ … each presenting their own little spark of temptation.

‘ _You still believe in me.  You can’t get rid of me and you know it.’_  Jim said. _‘I’m all you have.’_   Sebastian began walking faster even though he knew the voice would come with him regardless of speed. 

The sun was just falling behind the horizon shrouding everything in a somber shade of purple when Sebastian stepped out of the cab at the cemetery.  As he wove his way through the stones he spotted another figure at the grave site.  The man had pale short blonde hair and for a second Sebastian tried to figure out how Dr. Watson had arrived here in shorter time than he had.  He hung back as to not disturb the man in his mourning.   He quickly realized that the man was too tall, too lean.  The man turned and as he saw his silhouette sick dread crept in to Sebastian’s mind.  A clammy chill slid its way down his neck as the realization the Sherlock Holmes was alive slowly worked its way in to his brain. 

For the first time in his life action, or even the thought of it, completely evaded him.  He watched frozen as the minimally disguised man bent down and traced the letters on his own headstone.  When he stood he held a single red rose delicately between his fingers.  It was only slightly withered.  Two days old at most. 

Sebastian had always assumed that Sherlock, like Jim, truly was a sociopath, that John Watson had served a greater purpose to the detective.  He watched Sherlock hold the flower as if it were an injured bird.  His facial expressions alternated between a deep frown and a miniscule smile.  The difference Sebastian saw in the facial expressions only made him feel more fragile.  Jim had never told Sebastian that he loved him.  If he had it would have been a manipulative lie.   Not only had he lost everything, but he had never had it in the first place. 

Sherlock turned to leave the grave site and for the first time took notice of Sebastian lurking ten yards back.  Sebastian pretended to not notice that the man walking away from the tombstone was the one supposedly the one buried underneath it.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Sherlock’s face was haggard and unshaven.

_‘Eight’_ Jim whispered gleefully.  New vigor had found its way back in to his voice.  It was the type of excitement that only the proposition of facing one of the Holmes brothers had been able to put there.

“Moran.”  The detective said.  It was not a question.  As the sound of the man’s voice reached his ears new anger washed over him.  It was a level of rage he had never before experienced and it seeped in to the cracks the sorrow had left and lit them on fire.  He had survived.  They had lost.  It had all been for nothing.

“Holmes.”  Their eyes locked for just a second before Sherlock began rapidly examining his every trait starting with his shoes and working his way up.  It was a frantic gesture, not as showy as what Jim so often did but even so Sebastian recognized it.

_‘Five.  Don’t waste any more time you fool’_ Jim said. But Sebastian ignored him.  A better plan was already forming in his head.  _‘Ooh very good dearie.  I like it.’_ Jim nearly purred as he watched the thoughts take shape.

“Four… Three.” Sebastian looked at the detective in surprise as he counted the options out loud.

“Your time frame for stealth has long passed, but I’m sure you are perfectly aware of that. Which begs the question, why are you here Colonel?”   The detective asked.  His eyes narrowed to a squint as he tilted his head to one side.  Sebastian smiled and brushed past him.

“An eye for an eye is the only Justice detective.  And let me make it very clear.  I. Owe. You.” He said spitting out every word. The detective tensed behind him.  Sebastian kept walking and from behind him he heard Sherlock quietly whisper a single word.

“John.”  


	3. III

The sun beat down on his back as he crouched behind the tree.  He had thought that John would have come early and spent the day at the grave site but noon had come and gone and the solider had yet to appear.  A different blonde head was visible sitting on a park bench 70 meters away, an easy shot, but that was not why he was here.  A cab pulled up to the curb.  All of the players were here.  The game could begin.

Moran shifted his position behind the tree.  Sherlock had yet to notice him.  The hyper awareness that always set in before a kill lit up his world.   Jim giggled over his shoulder.  He slipped the gun out of its holster and pulled back the slide to chamber a round.  _Glock 45... Hollow point… eight different ways to kill Doctor Watson simply by pulling the trigger._

One shot would do the job; the question was how long did he want the dying to take?  The head or the heart would be quick, comparatively painless.  He figured shooting john in the head would be the closest thing to justice. 

 _‘But that’s no fun pet’_ Jim said.  John had almost reached the grave.   His cane was firmly clutched in his hand supporting more of his weight than it needed to.  Moran decided that he would aim for the stomach.  Given ten minuets the acid would corrode the surrounding organs beyond repair.  It was one of the most painful ways to die that Sebastian had witnessed. _Three shots and the damage would be too much to correct._

Sebastian stepped out from behind the tree and began to walk toward the grave as he raised his gun.  John’s shoulders heaved up and down with sobs.  Besides the three of them the grave yard was empty. 

Only within twenty feet did the peroxide disguised man notice his approach.  Sherlock had been focused on John’s shaking form.  Sherlock had never learned to turn his sentiment off; he had probably never needed to.  

The detective was walking more quickly now.  _It was time.  Easy Shot. Nine ways from here._   The trigger seemed to mold to his finger as he threaded the dot between the sights.  He had just begun to compress the trigger when a shot rand out. Followed by a second. Sebastian looked down. _Diaphragm, femoral artery, chance of survival twenty percent._  

Silence was followed by the deafening sound of his head hitting the sidewalk.  His hands stood out red in the gray that had taken over everything else; then it all disappeared.

When he next awoke he was in an all white room.  He could hear that beeping of a machine to his right but he couldn’t turn his head to focus on it.  A small object was pressed in to his hand.

“Welcome back pet.” A familiar voice said.  Sebastian could see a figure standing in the corner of the room.  

“I shall inform you when I require your services.”  The figure walked away and he again lost consciousness. 

When he woke up again the object was still in his hand.  It was a flash drive with the words ‘ _Did you miss me?’_ written across the surface.  Sebastian smiled and whispered to the empty room.

“Of course, my love.”


End file.
